


I Scaled Mountains, You Built Skyscrapers

by fractalsbutfinite



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Ages Don't Make Sense just like DSMP Lore, Business Partners, Canon Divergence, Canon Related, Dialogue and Description Heavy, Dream Team SMP Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Flashbacks, Gen, Giving us the friends to enemies backstory we all deserve, No shipping, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person, Past Friendship, Pre-Dream SMP, Schlatt & Wilbur POVs, What I imagine a wilschlatt empire to look like, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29035140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalsbutfinite/pseuds/fractalsbutfinite
Summary: When Ghostbur's memories return, forming a separate consciousness, Will and Schlatt are forced to confront a past one vowed to never speak of and the other forgot.
Relationships: Dream SMP Ensemble/Dream SMP Ensemble, Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Kudos: 25





	I Scaled Mountains, You Built Skyscrapers

**Author's Note:**

> Need some Wilschlatt lore? I'm your dealer!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur and Schlatt meet, sending Will down a spiral of missing memories.

They were both dead, he knew that much. 

Ghostbur was a hideous mirage, a happy hallucination of the horrors of his life. Deep in his soul, Wilbur knew. He remembered every terrorist action that had wracked his L'manburg, the most recent one his own. But he liked to forget, liked to throw his sorrows out in physical form, disguising them as a caring gift. In truth, Wilbur was a monster. Everyone was glad he was dead.

"Um, hello?"

That voice. That twisted voice, caught with a New York twang at the back end. That was the one thing even Ghostbur couldn't seem to forget. 

"Jschlatt."

"Yeah, hey!" There he was, coming out of the shadows of Wilbur's final resting place. It was the first time in a while that Wilbur had seen Schlatt wearing anything less formal than business casual. Dressed in a snug sky blue sweatshirt and—

"You aren't wearing any pants!"

"No one but you can tell, right? So it doesn't matter." The ghostly bottle clenched in Schlatt's hand dropped to the ground with a soft _hmph,_ evaporating into nothing. "Huh. Doesn't hit like it used to." 

"Still drowning your sins in alcohol?" Wilbur was angry. Of course he was angry. His grave was unmarked, nothing but a crumbling crater. Even Henry had a grave. Wilbur was worse than a ghost, nothing but a spirit of hurt and sadness.

"Not sins, just business decisions. Some are harder than others, y'know."

"Like banishing your best friend from his own country?"

" _Former_ best friend. Oh right, you don't remember." 

"I remember well enough." The raspy lull in Wilbur's voice probably had something to do with having a sword run through him. 

"Hiya, I'm Ghostbur! Want some blue? I don't remember any of the horrible things I did, so you just _have_ to be nice to me." Schlatt mocked, mimicking Wilbur's tone. "Please, you need to face it. Face the past. Face me." 

"You aren't wearing underwear either." Wilbur replied, ignoring Schlatt's comment in full.

"And you're looking," Schlatt shot back, dramatically pulling his sweater down. 

Silence. Their rapport, entertaining as it may have been could only last so long before they remembered where they were and how they got there. The sudden realization that they were dead. Dead and gone. Forever.

"Schlatt... do you remember? All of it?"

"Of course I remember. How could I forget?" 

How could he forget. Sure, it was just a casual comment, but it struck deep into Wilbur's heart. How could he not handle his own life, his own tragedies, his own _choices._ Wilbur had simply neglected himself, forcing others to treat him like a vase teetering on the edge of a massive canyon. Fragile and volatile. 

"Well," Schlatt continued, realizing his mistake. "I was worse than you. You were noble enough to take the fall. I- I couldn't."

"Dying after destroying your own country isn't noble. I just didn't want to deal with the consequences."

Schlatt coughed into his hand, summoning another liquor bottle. "Geez, who is this? It sure isn't Ghostbur."

"What about the Ghost of Wilbur Past?"

"That's just Ghostbur but longer." Schlatt took a long swig of his whiskey and held it out. "Want some?"

Wilbur took it, wincing as the stinging liquid burned every inch of his throat. "How does that work? You just make alcohol?"

Schlatt shrugged. "Perks of the job. The only drawback is the sharp heart pains. I'm sure it works for every ghost. Can't you do it with blue? You get depression, I get alcohol. Look at the two of us."

Wilbur passed the bottle back to Schlatt, taking in the carnage. The night was quiet except for the chirping of crickets, ruins and rubble highlighted by the full moon. Stony remains of the button room stood around them, emblazoned with shredded flags. But somehow, it was peaceful. A warm chill ran through the air, the rustling leaves a perfect backdrop for the clinking of the bottle as it passed between them. 

The night soon ended. 

—

Wilbur woke up in a cramped NYC apartment. His bed was a futon, coated in cheeto crumbs and wrapped in a tartan blanket. 

"You want McDonalds?"

"Huh? What?" Sun seemed to be beaming from every angle, blinding Wilbur's sleepy eyes. 

"Oh, right." A hand appeared out of the brightness. "Jschlatt. Most people just call me Schlatt. I'm the guy you got hammered with last night. We're business partners now." 

"We're what now?" Wilbur choked, sitting up. 

"Business partners. Then again, that was five hours ago. In your drunken stupor. Ah." Towering above him, a blessed freedom from the harsh lights, stood a suit-wearing sheep?

"You're a sheep?"

"I prefer ram." Schlatt cleared his throat, gesturing towards the horns. "If you have any questions, don't. You asked them all last night. You even tried waving a red napkin in front of me. I _like_ red." 

"...and you're Jschlatt?"

"Yes. We went over this. Your fellow co-founder of Schlatt and Soot." At Wilbur's confused expression, he continued. "We both decided my name should go first by default. I mean, look at me."

"I'm taller than you."

"And you got so drunk that you're not wearing anything under that blanket. My point stands."

Wilbur looked down, proving Schlatt's point. "Must've been a hell of a night."

Honestly, Wilbur didn't remember much from last night. He headed out to a lowkey bar for a night out, and somehow ended up naked chatting with a goat businessman. What a night it must've been. 

"Ironically enough, it was a night to remember. We had a friendly drinking competition, and might've gotten into a couple of bar fights, which I saved your pretty face from. All in all, the perfect first meeting story for our future company description. I'm thinkin' cryptocurrency." 

"I'm thinking I could use some clothes." Wilbur's head was pounding. "And a Tylenol."

—

Thirty minutes later, Wilbur was dressed in a New York crewneck and jeans, sitting on Schlatt's kitchen stools watching him try (fail) at making eggs benedict. 

"Eggs benedict are British and shit right? Y'all like this shit?" Schlatt asked, turning to toss another egg into the trash. 

"Just a bagel would be fine, y'know." Wilbur chuckled. The whiplash of seeing Schlatt in a yolk stained apron on top of his three piece suit was so hilarious that he couldn't stop his laugh from bursting out. 

"What?" A spatula and spoon hung precariously from Schlatt's horns, a casualty from the utensil rack when the eggs caught on fire. "I normally get takeout."

"And I'm meant to be your business partner? You can't even make breakfast."

"You _are_ my business partner. You said so."

"I was under the influence. We don't even know each other."

"We don't know each other, huh?" Schlatt said, sliding Wilbur a bagel. "You're a Brit in New York on "business" with nowhere to stay, an aspiring musician, a guy who can't hold his liquor, and accepts eggs benedict from strangers. I think I know you pretty well."

"I woke up on your couch. If you were going to kill me, you would've done it sooner. Maybe you know me, but I don't know you."

"You're an optimist, I see. I'm a realist. We balance each other out. All you need to know about me is that I'm a successful businessman. 

"Successful and enlisting drunks," Wilbur's reply was muffled by his mouthful of bagel. 

"Enlisting partners. You're perfect. I already got to work while you were asleep. We have an office, business cards, and a website up and running. All that's left is your signature."

There was no way to rationalize this. Teaming up with a guy you couldn't remember, for a random business venture whose only current interest was cryptocurrency. Yet the idea had a sort of appeal: an excuse to escape muggy London and explore the new money side of the Big Apple. 

Who was he kidding? Had Wilbur ever even made a rational decision in his life? Some part of him had already made a home in the company of this foul-mouthed, scruffy ram-man. 

Schlatt slipped out of his apron and shook the utensils from his horns with a clang. "Whaddya say?"

You shouldn't trust goat men with bad apartments, and you really shouldn't start businesses with them. When you notice sweatshirts smeared with pizza grease and ink, its time to get the heck out of dodge. If you don't remember meeting the guy who tried relentlessly to make you eggs benedict, making dirty jokes about your ass all the while, don't shake his hand. Only devils make deals that way. 

"Sure." Wilbur shook Schlatt's hand, and it was so. 


End file.
